Head and Heart
by carlyinrome
Summary: Faith&Dana. Dana and Faith have some things in common. Post Damaged. Written as a backup for Cadence's Femslash Santa Ficathon.


**Head and Heart **

Piece by piece. Yellow makes you weak, brown makes you sleepy. Not weak anymore.

There are important things. Important pieces. Head and heart. Needle goes in, but where does the poison go? It's not poison, not going to hurt you, Dana, it's going to make you better. Going to make you stronger. Slayer. Not weak anymore.

Cut off the head, or a stake through the heart. (Keep cutting until you see dust.) But that's not the only thing. They're important for other reasons. Head and heart, heart and head.

Not alone anymore. Went to sleep, woke up across the sea with sisters. Strong, like me. Slayers. 

Most of them, they want daddies, too, let the Watchers tell them Don't fight now, be quiet and listen to books and words and not the music of weapons and your bodies. They don't know that daddies go away: they're weak. Not strong like me, not like my sisters.

There's another girl here who knows. She doesn't want a daddy, told the Watchers to Fuck off when they told me the doctors know What's Best for me. She knows who's strong and who isn't. Faith knows what power is.

Faith comes and sits with me sometimes. I have a real room like the other girls, but not their schedule, because the doctors have to poison me – It's not poison, Dana, it's helping you, it's helping you, roll up your sleeve, don't squirm – six times a day and because I'm not like them, even though we're sisters. Piece by piece, but some of my pieces are missing. I know this.

It's not that I'm dangerous, because we're all dangerous.

But sometimes Faith comes and sits with me. She's different, too. Her pieces aren't missing, but they're shaped different. But it's not the same as with me, because the other girls look up to her instead of away. But she shines a special light on me, and comes and sits with me when I'm put away. She sits with me and smokes cigarettes – she offered me one, but I didn't want to drink fire. (Cut off the head or stab the heart. Fire works, too. Keep cutting until you see dust.) – and talks, even when I can't.

The other girls are with their Watchers. I'm in my room because I've just had the poison (It's clear. Not blue or yellow or brown; I can only see it when I close my eyes.) pushed into my veins, and I have to stay in my room outside (inside?) of real life now, because sometimes I get sleepy or angry or . . . they worry. The doctors.

(You can't hurt me anymore.)

I'm heavy and drowsy from the poison or because they told me to be, and I'm bored from being shut up like a

(me)

zoo animal. I just fall against the wall, let my eyes close.

I can kind of feel her when she comes in the room. You should be able to feel them, it's not enough to see their True Face. But Faith's not a vampire, even if she moves like the night.

"Hey." She sits at the edge of my bed and lights a cigarette. The doctors have told her not to smoke in here.

"Hi."

"They leave you in here all by your lonesome again?"

"All the time."

I like the way her mouth curves when she smokes. Serpentine, sexual. Original sin. 

"Why aren't you out there, with them?" I ask.

Her face contorts in a flicker of annoyance – I don't need another diazepam – her dark eyes flashing. They catch the light like silver. I like that, too. As dark as they are, they still drink in the light.

Blood does that.

"Fuck all that _We Are Family_ crap. I'm much better cozied up somewhere by myself or with some select company, you know, girlfriend?" Her eyes narrow to ebony slits. "Or have I got you pegged wrong? Are you just cooped up by the man; do you really want to play with the other kiddies, braid hair and shit?"

I study my hands. I don't know.

"I don't know. I'm . . . different. It's hard." 

She frowns. "Yeah. I get that." The frown disappears as she exhales, leaving her with the smoke. "People like that . . . ? They don't _get_ people like us, Dana. Damaged people." 

I'm surprised. I almost say something – which is hard anyway, harder around her. But then she slips her hand over mine. The words stop, swallow themselves up.

"I've kind of had the market cornered on playing the badass-martyr-bitch around these parts, you know," she says calmly, like her hand isn't on my hand. Like her thumb isn't tracing little circles over my flesh, like I'm not in fever. Like I can breathe. "I mean, when things went down with Buffy—"

"I've had dreams about her," I say abruptly. Comes out too fast. Before I can stop it, and I blush.

Faith looks at me evenly. "I have dreams about her all the time."

We're not talking about the same thing. An unfamiliar nausea cramps at my stomach. I don't like her. Buffy. I've felt her mouth fold too many times beneath beautiful men with soft lips that hide sharp fangs.

Faith sees the darkness pass over my face. She stubs out her cigarette and takes her now free hand to cup my face.

"Didn't work out."

I've never been touched like this. A touch that doesn't mean to hurt. Hurting touches are easy, compared to this: I know what to do. Kick, punch, stab. Keep cutting until you see dust. Now . . . can't breathe. I feel like I'm dying; my heart hurts, and I want to cry. But I don't want her to stop. I want her to do anything but stop. I turn into her touch, into her palm, and she lets her thumb fall over my lips. I like that. Don't want to have to talk. Talking's hard. I just want to . . . _be_. With her.

Her hand on my hand . . . gone. She cups my face with that one, too, and now she's holding me, angling me, controlling me. Control the fight, the upper hand is everything. But it's not a fight. I don't want the upper hand. I want Faith to have it. Anything she wants.

The doctors poison me again – not poison, Dana, it's helping you, you'll never hurt me again – and send me to the quiet doctor I only see once a week. She says I'm doing better – no more screaming at night

(still monsters in my head, but here, everyone has monsters in their heads)

– and she wants to know what I've learned since I've been here. I don't tell her much, and she lets me go back to my room to wait for Faith. But I'm not stupid. Or that broken. I've learned things. I've learned that it's okay to trust some people, and that it takes less than a pound of pressure to break flesh. I've learned that I have sisters, that I'm the same as someone, somewhere. That when you fire a crossbow, to make sure that your thumb and forefinger are below the cable and flight deck.

I've learned how to French kiss. 

I've learned that some things, once broken, can be made whole again. Piece by piece. Head and heart.


End file.
